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POEM  S. 


Ot  #-</'4^*r' 


NEW     YORK 
1859. 


2VTC 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1859,  by 
E.    J.    CUTLER, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court,  for  the  Southern  District  of 
New  York. 


Baker   &    Godwin,  Printers, 
No.  1  Spruce  Street,  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS. 


THE    BROOK, 5 

THE    THRUSH, •  ^ 

IN   THE    MORNING, 9 

YOU, 12 

MY    BOOK, 13 

THE    PLANK, 14 

THE    SEARCH, 16 

BLIGHT, 19 

A    YEAR, 20 

AU    REVOIR, .22 

ENDYMION,      ........  24 

THE    UNKNOWN   FRIEND, 26 

BY    THE    DEAD,           .......  28 

STUDIES,      ........  31 

A    DEDICATION, 35 


w2G45Sr5' 


POEMS. 


THE    BEOOK. 


Somewhere  there  is  a  sea; 

I  near  it,  every  turn  ; 
But  where  its  waters  be 

I  cannot  stop  to  learn. 

So,  through  the  sylvan  scene, 

I  murmur  as  I  go ; 
I  keep  the  mosses  green, 

And  help  the  lilies  blow. 


THE    BROOK. 

The  rushes  made  a  net 

They  thought  I  could  not  pass, 
With  sticks  and  mosses  set, 

And  woven  in  with  grass. 

I  passed  them  one  by  one ; 

They  guessed  not  my  intent ; 
It  was  so  slyly  done, 

I  tittered  as  I  went. 


THE    THEUSH, 


I  SING  from  spray  to  spray, 
I  love  my  little  mate ; 

And  if  the  buds  delay 
I  only  have  to  wait ; 

For  rain  is  sure  to  fall 

To  nourish  grass  and  bush, 
And  God,  who  thinks  of  all, 

Will  not  forget  the  thrush. 

So  I  have  nought  to  do 
But  just  to  build  my  nest. 

And,  all  the  season  through. 
To  work  and  sing  my  best ; 


THE    THRUSH. 


To  feed  my  callow  young ; 

To  skip  from  spray  to  spray, 
And  laugh,  the  boughs  among, 

My  happy  life  away. 


IN    THE    MORNING. 


Is  it  the  voice  of  a  flute  that  calls  from  the  neighboring 
orchard  ? 

No,  not  a  flute,  but  the  mellower  song  of  the  red- 
breasted  robin. 

Is  it  a  fairy's  hand  that  shakes  from  the  cherry  its  petals  ? 

No,  not  a  fairy's  touch,  but  the  wind  moving  softly 
among  them. 

Is  it  a  woven  veil  that  softens  the  green  of  the  valley  ? 

No,  not  a  work  of  the  loom,  but  a  mist  exhaled  from  the 
meadows. 

Is  it  the  buckler  of  Mars  that  is  lifted  over  the  moun- 
tains ? 

No,  not  the  shield  of  a  god,  but  the  sun  on  the  eastern 
horizon. 

Spring  is  the  bountiful  giver  of  blooms  to  the  garden 

and  forest ; 
Beautiful  morning  fills  them  with  sweetness  and  hangs 

them  with  dew-drops  : — 


10  IN    THE    MORNING. 

Spring,  the  laugliing-eyed  queen  of  delight,  and  morning, 

her  handmaid, 
Braiding  her  tresses  with  pearls,  and  showering  odors 

upon  her. 

Lo,  through  the  delicate  purple  and  white  of  the  blos- 
soming orchard, 

Shadows  of  elms  on  its  roof,  the  house  with  the  breezy 
verandah. 

Draped  in  the  tender  green  of  the  glossy  Virginia 
creeper ! 

Brightly  the  fountain  before  it  leaps  up  and  breaks  in 
the  sunshine. 

See !  a  lady  in  white  trips  lightly  into  the  garden. 
Stoops  at  a  box-trimmed  bed  to  gather  a  pansy  and 

moss-pink, 
Plucks  a  spray  from  the  sweet  arbor- vitse,  and  buries 

them  in  it. 
Then  she  pauses  a  moment,  to  list  to  the  song  of  the 

robin. 
Yonder  the  tulip  exults  in  the  splendor  of  orange  and 

scarlet ; 


IN    THE    MORNING.  11 

Queens  it  in  purple,  the  iiis,  amid  the  drawn  swords  of     ~ 

her  guardsmen  ; 
Blushes  the  almond,  an  Eve  without  a  green  leaf  to 

enrobe  her. 
Ah !  a  cinnamon  rose  has  a  bud   newly  pointed  with 

crimson. 
Happy  rose-bud,  permitted  to  die  in  the  lace  of  her 

bosom. 

See,  on  the  garden-gate,  a  lily  with  dew  on  its  petals ! 

No,  not  a  flower,  but  her  hand  lit  up  with  the  flash  of  a    q '. 

jewel. 
See !  a  tassel  of  gold  gleams  under  the  edge  of  her 

bonnett 
No,  not  a  tissue  of  gold,  but  one  of  her  beautiful  tresses. 
See !  how  the  grasses  nod,  and  the  landscape  heaves  in 

the  distance ! 
No,  it  is  I  that  am  stirred  a§  she  answers  the  note  of 

the  robin. 
Bird  of  the  beautiful  voice !  I  want  you  to  sing  in  my 

parlor ; 
Lily,  white  queen  of  the  morning  !  I  must  have  you  to 

bloom  in  my  garden. 


12 


YOU. 


A  PLEASANT  vale,  with  cedar  trees 

Throiigli  wliicli  tlie  five-leaved  ivy  peeps  ; 

Behind,  a  pool  in  shadow  sleeps  ; 
In  front,  an  outlook  to  the  seas; 
A  sober  brook  'twixt  sea  and  pond ; 

A  singing  bird  on  every  brier ; 

The  outlines  of  a  village  spire 
Against  the  rose  and  blue  beyond. 


13 


MY    BOOK. 


I  LOOKED  along  a  scholar's  shelf, 

And  chose  a  book,  not  knowing  why  ; — 
Perhaps  the  binding  pleased  my  eye, 

Perhaps  it  drew  my  inner  self.    . 

I  turned  the  leaves  with  eager  hand 
And  read  on  each  fresh  page  of  it 
Legends  of  wisdom  and  of  wit, 

Too  deep  for  me  to  understand. 

Still  over  each  vignette  I  hang 
-And  strive  to  make  the  meaning  clear ; — 
As  well  translate  the  solar  year. 

Or  score  the  song  the  syrens  sang !       i 

You  are  that  book, — and  as  for  me, 

I  like  my  sweet  perplexity. 

2 


14 


THE    PLANK. 


Here  is  the  plank  where  I  have  knelt  to  see 
The  minims  dart,  and  spotted  turtles  creep. 
One  day  a  little  maiden  played  with  me  : 
The  narrow  brook  for  us  became  broad  ocean, 
And  rocks,  the  fallen  tree,  the  mossy  bank, 
Were  London,  Paris,  India,  or  Peru ; 
Our  ships,  the  last  year's  leaves  and  acorn  cups, 
Peopled  the  sea, — now  sober  merchantmen 
Kich  in  imaginary  gold  and  spice, 
Or  proud  armadas  threatening  mimic  war. 
Now  Cleopatra's  barge  of  state  went  by, 
With  butter-cups  for  golden  prow  and  stern. 
And  purple  canvas  from  the  blue-flag's  loom. 


THE    PLANK.  15 

Innocent  joy  overlives  the  winter's  frost. 

It  cannot  die,  but  perfects  flower  on  flower 

In  memory's  garden,  and  our  thoughts  hang  round  it 

Like  humming  birds  about  the  blossomed  bean. 

The  gem-like  beauty  of  that  summer  day 

Life's  common  waters  never  can  dissolve. 

It  was  a  life  itself, — with  eager  youth, 

A  busy  manhood,  and  a  sad  old-age ; 

For  when  we  parted,  as  the  sun  went  down, 

The  hand  of  age  seemed  laid  upon  our  hearts. 

We  said  that  we  would  always  play  together, 

And  serious  eyes  made  promises  of  love. 

Alas !  she,  now  a  thriving  farmer's  wife, 

With  ruddy,  white-haired,  shouting  boys  and  girls. 

Bears  lightly  on  her  heart  that  broken  vow ! 


16 


THE    SEARCH. 


TJp  and  down  I  go,  but  cannot  find  you 
Whom  my  heart  is  ever  calling  after, 
Whom  my  hopes  are  ever  prophesying. 
I  have  heard  the  flutter  of  a  garment, 
I  have  caught  the  flash  of  sunny  tresses. 
And  so  wondered  if  you  were  not  near  me. 
I  have  traced  a  footstep  in  the  spring-time, 
By  the  violets  and  dainty  mosses 
Seeming  fresher,  sweeter  for  its  passing ; — 
Could  a  step  but  yours  have  made  them  sweeter  \ 
I  have  heard  a  voice  as  soft  as  silence. 
Voice  so  soft  I  ceased  to  think  in  answer. 
Yet  so  far  and  faint,  I  was  uncertain 
Whether  stars  did  wink  or  you  were  speaking. 


THE    SEARCH.  17 

Let  me  hear,  0,  woman  I  am  seeking ! 
O,  my  perfect  self,  my  soul,  my  otlier ! 
Let  me  hear  again  your  voice  or  footfall, 
Certain  that  it  is  your  voice  or  footfall ! 

Can  it  be,  I  have  forgot  the  token 

Which  you  gave  by  that  celestial  river, 

.Where  we  parted  with  the  dissonant  sorrow 

Of  a  silver  harp-string  strained  to  breaking. 

When  I  thought  you  lost  to  me  forever. 

And  you  said,  "  By  this.  Love,  you  shall  know  me"  ? 

No,  I  cannot  fail  to  know  the  token. 

For  it  is  the  sunshine,  music,  perfume, 

Is  the  goal,  and  purpose  of  my  being. 

So  I  study  voices,  motions,  faces. 
Seeking  for  the  symbol  of  your  presence, 
Sometunes  thinking  I  at  last  have  found  you. 
Look  again,  and  miss  the  gracious  emblem. 
So  I  read  the  lives  of  noble  women, 
Warm  my  heart  with  words  that  they  have  spoken. 
Let  it  beat  the  rhythm  of  their  poems ; 
Thinking  you,  perhaps,  have  been  before  me 


O  THE    SEARCH. 

And  in  deeds  or  music  left  a  message, 
As  a  maiden  drops,  in  field  or  garden, 
For  her  lover,  pledges  of  remembrance 
Seen  by  him,  unseen  of  every  other. 

But  not  any  deeds  nor  any  poems 

Bear  that  mystic  seal  upon  their  foreheads. 

Breathe  that  homelike  tenderness  of  cadence. 

Yet  my  soul  keeps  young,  and  faith  is  perfect ; 

For  I  know  that  I  at  last  must  find  you, — 

By  the  virtue  of  your  parting  promise. 

By  the  earnest  of  my  secret  longing, 

Find  you  sometime, — possibly  to  morrow, — 

Find  you,  clasp  you,  be  again  a  circle. 


19 


BLIGHT. 


That  dream  is  over,  then, 
Never  to  return  again. 
My  flowers,  I  understand. 
Were  planted  in  the  sand ; 
For  the  bud  to  earth  did  shrink 
Without  showing  any  pink. 

He  has  locked  our  private  door, 
I  cannot  enter  any  more. 
Listening  at  the  key -hole,  I 
Try  to  hear  him  walking  by ; 
But  I  cannot  catch  his  tread, 
So  I  know  that  he  is  dead. 


20 


A    YEAE 


"  Farewell,  my  love,  for  I  must  go 

Down  where  the  fragrant  tropics  blow." 
The  flowers  were  nodding  on  hill  and  lea. 

"  Before  again  the  harvests  shine, 

Thy  little  hand  shall  sleep  in  mine." 
The  ship  was  swinging  upon  the  sea. 

The  sailor  kissed  the  maiden's  lip. 
And  spread  the  white  sails  of  his  ship. 
The  ship  was  flying  upon  the  sea. 

The  maiden  watched  it  from  the  shore 
Till  darkness  shut  his  sable  door. 
The  flowers  were  sleeping  on  hill  and  lea. 

And  then  she  sought  her  mother's  side, 
Nor  strove  the  willful  tear  to  hide. 
The  flowers  were  weeping  on  hill  and  lea. 


A    YEAR.  21 

The  south  wind  died ;  the  north  wind  blew, 
And  white  and  cold  the  season  grew. 
The  ship  was  tossing  upon  the  sea. 

The  spring  came  gayly  up  the  south 
With  buds  in  hair  and  song  in  mouth. 
The  flowers  were  waking  on  hill  and  lea. 

Her  thoughts  were  like  the  poet's  lark 
That  soars  and  chides  away  the  dark. 
The  ship  was  dancing  upon  the  sea. 

The  harvest  moon,  a  silver  line, 
Just  in  the  west  began  to  shine. 
The  flowers  were  nodding  on  hill  and  lea. 

A  broad,  dark  hand  embraced  her  own. 
And  thought  put  on  an  undertone. 
The  ship  was  swinging  upon  the  sea. 


22 


AU    REVOIE. 


So  soon  are  you  going,  then  ? 

Not  an  hour  since,  we  met — 
Still  the  farmer  and  his  men 

Find  the  grass  theyVe  mowing,  wet ; 

Birds  are  just  in  perfect  song. 

Told  is  not  the  half  their  story, — 

Not  a  rose  hath  suflfered  wrong. 
Shut  is  not  one  morning-glory. 

When  I  took  your  fresh  warm  hand, 
You  would  stay,  I  thought,  until 

Evening  fell ;  and  there  you  stand 
With  your  foot  upon  the  sill. 


AU    REVOIR.  23 

I  have  called  the  horses  out, 

I  have  ready  hook  and  line ; 
I  had  hoped  to  hear  your  shout 

Mingled  in  the  hunt  with  mine. 

You  will  go  ?     A  little  while, 

I  may  have  a  call  your  way ; 
Arm  m  arm  we'll  cross  the  stile — 

So  you  think  you  cannot  stay  ? 

Then  good-bye !     For  me,  I  hold, 
One  hour's  worth  your  coming  for  : 

So  whatever  remains  untold 
We'll  remember — Au  revoir  ! 


24 


ENDYMION. 


Through  forest-paths,  dim-lighted  by  the  dawn, 

And  over  open  pastures  without  trail, 

A  maiden  walked  with  morning  on  the  hills. 

Upon  a  level,  where  the  rapid  slope 

Paused  as  it  were  to  take  a  bolder  leap, 

A  brotherhood  of  oaks  had  pitched  their  tents 

Behind  a  palisade  of  blueberry  bushes, 

Masked  by  the  spotted  lily  and  sweet-fern. 

The  one  small  cedar  wore  a  hunter's  cap, 

And  lower  down,  a  mottled  powder-horn. 

As  at  the  ominous  hat  amid  the  corn 

The  feathered  thieves  at  timorous  distance  cower, 

But,  bolder  grown,  in  narrower  circles  wheel, 

Then  perch  a-top,  and  from  their  bubbling  throats 

Pour  mocking  songs  of  triumph — so  the  maid. 

A  war  of  roses  raged  along  her  cheek. 

And  now  the  red  prevailed,  and  now  the  white. 


ENDYMION.  2  5 

At  length,  on  tip-toe,  with  adventurous  hand 

She  put  aside  the  branches,  and  beheld, 

Shut  in  the  leafy  cave,  a  youth  asleep — 

The  brow  in  half-eclipse  of  random  hair. 

The  eyes  wide  arched,  full  cheeks  of  swarthy  red, 

A  silken  shade  on  tender  lips,  hands  brown 

"With  sport,  strength  ambushed  in  each  shapely  limb. 

She  stood  like  one  who  finds  by  chance  a  pearl. 

And  guesses  at  its  worth,  and  by  that  charm 

Builds  out  his  future  into  fairy-land. 

Her  new-fledged  fear  took  wings.  She  touched  his  cheek ; 

She  raised  his  curls,  and  left  a  temple  bare ; 

She  watched  the  throbbing  pulses  of  the  throat ; 

Then  plaited  a  thin  wreath  of  evergreen. 

With  two  or  three  wild-rose  buds,  for  his  head. 

Delaying  long  enough  to  see  him  stir. 

And  open  wide,  astonished  eyes, — then  fled 

By  rock  and  barberry-bush  and  laughing  stream, 

Pursued  by  rapid  feet  and  golden  words, 

Thrown  like  Hesperian  fruit  to  charm  her  speed, — 

*'  Stay,  beauteous  dream !" — until  he  caught  her  hand. 
3 


26 


THE    UNKNOWN    FRIEND. 


Oh,  friend  unknown !  I  faint  to  think 
Of  all  your  goodness  unto  me ; 

Though  poor  I  am,  you  do  not  shrink 
To  give  me  your  society. 

You  weave  for  me  my  robe  of  friends, 
Withhold  from  sin,  give  me  the  praise ; 

And,  where  one  path  of  beauty  ends, 
You  open  new  a  hundred  ways. 

I  know  no  feature  of  your  face, 
I  know  not  if  you  think  or  see  ; — 

Only  that  showers  of  good  and  grace 
Descend  from  some  near  heaven  on  me. 


THE    UNKNOWN    FRIEND.  ,        27 

And  though  I  cannot  see  the  hand 
That  plies  the  gorgeous  loom  of  morn, 

And  strive  in  vain  to  understand 
The  simple  science  of  the  corn ; 

vAnd  though  the  face  is  never  shown, 
Whose  smiles  I  feel  in  kiss  or  rod ; 

The  name  you  give  yourself,  unknown — 
I  make  a  name,  and  call  you  God. 


28 


BY   THE    DEAD. 


A  WAXEN  candle,  on  a  candlestick, 

Gave  light  to  all  the  house ;  a  sudden  wind 

Extinguished  it,  and  all  the  house  is  dark. 

I  looked  into  the  parlor  as  I  passed, 

And  saw  the  brow's  upturned  serenity, 

And  the  brave  figure  through  the  drapery. 

I  whispered  in  myself,  "  It  is  a  statue  ! 

"  The  artist-soul  has  just  now  left  his  labor ; 

"He  did. not  drudge  till  he  had  spoiled  his  work, 

*'  But  dropped  his  chisel  at  the  perfect  minute !" 

Was  that  a  sigh  that  shivered  through  the  hall, 
And  fainted  with  its  weight  of  utter  grief? 
Last  week  it  would  have  wrung  his  heart  to  hear. 
And  knit  his  arms  around  his  mother's  neck. 


BY    THE    DEAD.  29 

He  heeds  it  not,  undutiful  dead  son  ! 
Oh,  fatal  love !  that  so  enforceth  grief. 
Child  of  the  heart  and  nurtured  tenderly, 
Taught  all  its  weaknesses  but  to  betray, 
Armed  with  its  subtlest  lightnings  but  to  blast ! 

Is  that  a  footfall,  soft  upon  the  stair  ? 
Still  soft,  but  sharper,  on  the  marble  floor  ? 
And  next,  the  faintest  friction  of  a  hinge  ? 
I  could  not  see  the  father  with  the  dead. 
Perhaps  he  lifts  the  covering  from  the  face. 
And  looks  upon  the  features,  without  tears. 
Perhaps  he  tries  to  make  it  seem  a  dream, 
Or  tries  to  wake  himself  as  from  a  dream. 
Who  knows  what  fathers  do  in.  such  a  case  ? 

Your  eyes,  O  friend,  still  look  the  way  you  went. 
I  think  that  there  was  gladness  when  you  came. 
And  hurrying  to  and  fro  to  welcome  you. 
And  claspings  of  the  hand,  and  some  surprise. 
I  hold  that  you  did  well,  for  there  is  room 


30  BY    THE    DEAD. 

For  your  great  soul  to  stretcli  its  perfect  height. 
And  while  we  eat  the  fruits  that  we  call  truth, 
Poor  shrivelled  figs  at  corners  of  the  streets, 
You  pluck  them  fresh  from  fair,  immortal  trees. 


1 


31 


STUDIES. 


The  dogwood  blossoms,  white  and  tipped  with  pearl, 

Show  where  the  bobolink,  most  versatile 

Musician,  spins  his  many-colored  song. 

The  thrush's  whistle  makes  the  cedar-tree 

A  fount  of  silver  sweetness.     On  the  edge 

Of  the  ravine  the  robin  plays  his  pipe, 

And  in  the  alder  cloisters,  deeper  down, 

Near  neighbor  to  the  brook,  the  cat-bird  calls. 

O,  happy-soul ed  inhabitants  of  spring  ! 

I  thank  you  for  your  hospitable  songs. 

Fain  would  I  fit  my  music  to  your  key, 

And  art's  complex  perfections  interfuse 

With  your  severe  simplicity,  my  faith 

Enlarge  and  strengthen  with  your  confidence. 


32  STUDIES. 


The  long,  dark  waves  are  hurrying  down  the  bay, 

Inspn^ed,  as  with  a  purpose,  by  the  wind  : 

Their  snowy  banners  gleam  and  disappear, 

And  they,  exultant,  leap  upon  the  shore, 

White  with  the  flash,  loud  with  the  clash  of  arms. 

Beyond,  low  hills,  by  distance  hushed,  stretch  out 

In  timid  green  and  gentle  undulation ; 

But  here  a  voice  calls  out  of  every  tree. 

And  voiceless  herbs  make  shift  to  talk  by  signs. 

Across  a  sea  unmeasured,  from  a  shore 

Unknown,  a  force  streams  through  me  like  the  wind. 

It  strikes  the  chorded  prelude  of  a  song 

Amid  my  piny  branches,  and  low  down 

Stirs  humbler  feelings,  common  sympathies — 

Trivial  grasses,  ferns,  and  violets. 

III. 
A  MIST  was  driving  down  the  southern  slopes. 
And  stretched  away  along  the  distant  hills, 
White,  thin,  like  the  ambiguous  light  of  dreams. 


STUDIES.  33 

A  rock,  with  mosses  freshened  by  the  rain, 

Made  offer  of  a  seat  beside  the  shore  ; 

And  at  its  base  the  refluent  tide  had  left 

A  footstool, — reeds  and  broken  shells.    Overhead, 

The  dogwood's  silken  involucre  drooped ; 

Behind,  the  blueberry  hung  its  fairy  bells 

Along  a  bank  of  variegated  clay. 

Quaintly  engraven  by  slow-trickling  streams. 

Here,  in  a  thicket,  oaks  about  their  stems 

Drew  close  their  leaves,  half-grown  and  rosy-edged, 

The  black  birch  rustled  in  its  flexile  plumes. 

The  black  haw  trimmed  its  small  bouquets  between ; 

Low  at  their  feet  the  skeleton  fern  unrolled. 

And  swung  mist-jewelled  locks  of  maiden-hair. 

There,  cedars  builded  high  cathedral  towers. 

And  woodbines,  stealing  through  the  corridors. 

Reached  purple  fingers  out  to  catch  the  rain. 

Like  children  'neath  the  showery  eaves  of  June. 

I  heard  the  wind  loud  in  the  dripping  oaks, 
And  watched  the  turbid  waters  of  the  bay 
In  yellow  ripples  creeping  from  the  shore  ; 


34  STUDIES. 

But  not  a  thought  of  sorrow  or  despair 

Stole  cuckoo-like  into  my  nest  of  joy. 

No  sound  of  lamentation  smote  my  ear, 

No  weak  complaint  for  sunshine  long  delayed^ 

No  sentimental  sigh.     But  everywhere, 

A  vigorous  patience  and  serene  Content ; 

A  calm  reliance  on  the  eternal  laws 

That  work  by  alternation  to  one  end ; 

A  subtle  science,  which  transmutes  for  use 

The  useless,  and  surprises  into  grace 

The  partial  and  deformed. 


35 


A    DEDICATION. 


I   HAVE   known    you  long,   dear    lady,   yet  we   seem 
acquainted  newly, 
For  each  moment  makes  disclosure  of  some  charm 
before  unseen ; 
You  are  a  fair  garden  to  me,  nobly  planned  and  tended 
duly,— 
Here  the  red-rose,  there  the  white-rose,  and  the  lark- 
spur blue  between. 

Yet,  when  nature  spells  her  lessons,  you  are  wont  to 
pause  and  heed  her ; 
You,  with  all  your  subtle  culture,,  find  her  common 
words  divine ; 
So  I  gather  in  the  forest  the  blue  berries  of  the  cedar, 
Sumac,  ferns,  and  mosses  for  you,  with  a  fragrant 
spray  of  pine. 


36  A    DEDICATION. 

There  are  those  who  sing  you  nobler,  sweeter  songs  than 
I  can  sing  you, 
Who  can  twine  you  gracious  garlands  that  surpass  my 
faltering  skill ; 
Yet  I  pray  you  take  my  failure,  take  the  wreath  I  dare 
to  bring  you, — 
Seem,  at  least,  to  like  it.  Lady,  for  the  motive  and  the 
will. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subjert  to  immediate  recall. 

'          9Jun'58B. 

REC'U  U«^- 

General  Library 
LD  21A-50m-8/57                                University  of  California 
(C8481sl0)476B                                                Berkeley 

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